


Who View the Deed as Power's Creed, As Pure Authority (aka: The Sex Fic)

by henriettahoney



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, BDSM, But also, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub, Gay, Gay Sex, Handcuffs, Light BDSM, Lube, M/M, Masturbation, Spit As Lube, Wax Play, but still bdsm, dom!adam parrish will do it for me every time y'all i'm not sorry, okay kinda just like, so will sub!ronan but we're not discussing that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 15:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22498342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/henriettahoney/pseuds/henriettahoney
Summary: Remaining inside: A whip, a blindfold, both a ball and a spider gag, a paddle, rope, and various, more vanilla toys.Outside, now resting next to Adam’s leg: A bottle of lube, a soy candle, a lighter, a set of leather cuffs, and a small, glass plug.Calculated, Adam says, “I don’t have to cuff you if you can’t—if you’re not comfortable with that right now. You just said before that wax play was easier for you if you had no choice but to stay still.”
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 23
Kudos: 196





	Who View the Deed as Power's Creed, As Pure Authority (aka: The Sex Fic)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clawsnbeak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clawsnbeak/gifts).



“What time is it?” 

Ronan registers as soon as he’s spoken that his voice is rough and low from just waking, and he doesn’t miss how Adam grins as he slips back into bed, arm encircling his waist. 

“Early,” is all Adam offers. “Go back to sleep.”

Ronan lifts Adam’s knuckles to his lips and blows a warm huff of air over them, kissing them so gently he doubts Adam even feels it. “How early?”

“Six. Give or take.”

“You’re cold,” Ronan notes, the chill of Adam’s skin only just registering. “You been outside?”

Adam presses his nose into the bend of Ronan’s neck, which Ronan’s entirely aware is just to make him jump. “Yeah. It’s snowing.”

Finally, Ronan rolls over to pull Adam fully against him, tangling their feet around each other and the duvet. “Are you telling me you went outside  _ in the snow _ to feed all those furry fucks so I didn’t have to?”

“Cleaned the stalls, too,” Adam says, lips against his neck. 

“Well, fuck me, Parrish. I might have to marry you again.”

“S’not my name anymore,” Adam reminds him, pointlessly, because they both know full well that Ronan will never refer to him as anything else.

“You want breakfast?” Ronan asks, fingers rubbing gently at the muscles of Adam’s lower back. 

Adam hums softly, lips to Ronan’s chest. It feels nice. Warm. “Yeah. In a bit. I want somethin’ else first.”

It’s the drop of the  _ g _ that clues Ronan in. Adam doesn’t try to cover up his Henrietta drawl, not anymore, but he does make it a point to enunciate well unless his mind is so glued to another track that he can’t line it out. The insinuation was clear enough on its own, but Ronan understands now that Adam’s gone enough to want complete control. So he does the only thing he can: stretches out with his hands beneath his pillow, suddenly fully awake, and nods. “Go ahead.”

The corner of Adam’s lips turn up, and  _ that _ . That means enough business to cause Ronan to involuntarily swallow. He doesn’t speak, though, because he’s waiting for Adam to. Knows something’s coming. “No,” Adam says, pushing himself back to lean against the headboard and crossing his arms over his chest. “ _ You _ go ahead.”

“You want…” Ronan stops and then tries again, asking smoothly this time, “You want to watch me?”

“Yeah,” Adam tells him, because Adam has never been one to draw things out without necessity. “Maybe I’ll let you watch me, too. Would you like that?”

“Very much,” Ronan says, because it’s the truth, desperation be damned. 

Adam laughs, but it’s not a cruel sound in the slightest. “Okay. I’m right behind you, then.”

Ronan disentangles himself from the blankets and doesn’t waste any time stripping out of his boxers, because it doesn’t feel like Adam wants much in the way of pregaming. When he lays back, his eyes catch on the window, where, sure enough, snow is drifting steadily down outside. He almost can’t believe how quickly Adam’s warmed up when the backs of his fingers graze Ronan’s cheek. 

“Should I—I mean, should I just jack off, or—?”

Adam bends to kiss his temple, and it’s uncharacteristically soft for this particular mood. “Whatever you want. Do what feels good.”

There’s no denying, especially to Adam, that Ronan’s favorite form of pleasure is internal. Aside from the fact that Adam’s more comfortable calling the shots, it’s the main reason he bottoms nine times out of ten. So he repositions himself, facing away from Adam on his knees, and slicks up a single finger with what he thinks is enough spit for him to work it in.

Adam draws in a sharp, quiet breath, and when Ronan looks back over his shoulder, he sees that it’s because he’s already got a hand around his dick, gaze locked on Ronan’s ass. 

There’s something a little empowering about it, if he’s being honest. About knowing, no matter how dominant Adam is, that there’s always a way to break him. The quickest one unfailingly seems to be giving Ronan exactly what he needs. 

Or, in this case, watching Ronan give it to himself.

Because he knows Adam wants him to, Ronan makes a soft, breathy sound, barely more than an exhale. It isn’t forced—he feels good, already hard and only in to the second knuckle—but he only allows it for Adam’s sake. 

The sheets are rustling next to him, and he realizes when he drops his head that it’s because Adam is fisting his free hand in them, already struggling to maintain a grasp on his control.

Ronan hesitates ever so briefly, contemplating. But, no. Not yet.

They don’t  _ always _ come to a point that he has to talk Adam over the ledge, has to tell him it’s all right to do what he needs, that Ronan knows he would never hurt him, but  _ sometimes _ they do. And Ronan’s banking on today being one of those times.

He’s intent on drawing it out as long as he can, though, so he does the only thing he knows to do that will ground adam a little more: turns onto his back, pillow tucked swiftly beneath his head, and locks eyes with Adam. 

“Keep going,” Adam instructs, like he can read Ronan’s mind. The  _ I’m okay _ is unspoken but clear as day, and Ronan nods his head, bending his knee and hitching his left leg up to his chest.

There are pros and cons to this position.

Pros: He gets to watch Adam, and it feels even better.

Cons: See above.

He’s careful not to angle too far, not to push in too deeply, but he’s sleepy and Adam caught him off guard and he doesn’t think he can be held entirely accountable if he gets a little too far a little too quickly.

Adam is trying his damndest to keep eye contact, but he keeps slipping just enough for Ronan to notice it, keeps fisting his cock a little harder, keeps forcing his left hand to still. 

It’s been maybe sixty seconds.

Ronan sighs.

“Parrish.”

“It’s okay.” Adam does say it out loud this time, because he isn’t ready for Ronan to address it, but Ronan knows his tells well enough to know he’s not going to be able to keep his hands to himself for much longer. 

Ronan lets go of his leg and reaches across the expanse of the mattress to touch his fingertips to Adam’s. “It is,” he agrees, but it means something different, and they both know it. “It  _ is _ okay. Tell me what you want. Please.” 

Visibly, Adam bites down on the inside of his cheek. “No, I—I don’t—”

“Adam.”

Apparently all of Adam’s defenses aren’t up yet this morning, either.

“I wanna—can you get the box out?”

Involuntarily, Ronan’s brows quirks in curiosity. 

The box in question resides in their closet among many other boxes, and houses all Adam’s tools for when he feels unhinged enough to push Ronan to one limit or another.

With a slight wince, Ronan eases his finger out and slips off the edge of the bed to extract the box from the closet.

He doesn’t take anything out of it, because Adam didn’t specify what he wanted. Just hands it over and allows Adam to open it, watching carefully to see what he extracts.

Remaining inside: A whip, a blindfold, both a ball and a spider gag, a paddle, rope, and various, more vanilla toys.

Outside, now resting next to Adam’s leg: A bottle of lube, a soy candle, a lighter, a set of leather cuffs, and a small, glass plug. 

Calculated, Adam says, “I don’t have to cuff you if you can’t—if you’re not comfortable with that right now. You just said before that wax play was easier for you if you had no choice but to stay still.”

“Cuffs are good,” Ronan affirms, more breathless than he’d care to admit.

“Okay.” There’s an undertone of relief in Adam’s voice, and he busies himself with setting the box in the floor long enough to collect himself. “On your knees, toward the head of the bed. Get as comfortable as you can. I’ll cuff you wherever it’s easiest to hold your arms.”

Ronan does as he’s told, reorienting himself and grasping the headboard at the most relaxed points he can manage.

Adam’s hand is soothing and secure on his back, lips the same on his shoulder a moment later. “I love you,” Adam tells him; a rarity, especially in situations like this one. Then, before he can respond, “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Ronan answers, and narrowly resists tacking on a  _ sir _ , just to be a shit.

He hears a click and then the ever-recognizable squeezing of a tube and then another click, and then Adam’s fingertips are a barely-there pressure against him, asking wordlessly for entrance.

“Sorry,” Ronan says, because he knows he’s tensing up. “It’s cold.”

“You’re fine,” Adam assures him, pressing a kiss to his lower back. “Take your time.”

When Ronan feels himself starting to relax he pushes back into Adam’s touch, and the sound he utters now is in no way of his own volition.

“Does it hurt?” Adam asks in response, stilling. 

“No.” Ronan pushes back again, barely, just to get his point across. “It’s good.”

Adam’s careful with him, more so than he anticipates, working him open slowly and patiently, adding more lube every time he adds a finger, and when the plug finally breaches him, there’s nothing startling about the sensation save for the temperature of the glass.

It might be a new one, he realizes. Sometimes Adam buys things and doesn’t mention them until he needs to use them, or doesn’t mention them at  _ all _ , leaving Ronan to find out through experience only. He doesn’t remember one of this particular size and weight, but he likes it already. It’s nice and light despite the material, not stretching him too far, easy enough to hold in on his own. 

Silently this time, Adam waits.

“Good,” Ronan tells him again.

The sound of the metal chain on the cuffs slinking apart gets him impossibly harder somehow, and he takes a deep, grounding breath as Adam slots them through the bedframe and fastens one onto either of his wrists. Because they’re leather, they won’t ever become uncomfortable or dig into his skin, which he appreciates greatly. It means he can focus his senses more intently on everything else instead. 

Like the thing he knows is coming next.

From behind him resonates the crisp flick of a lighter, and what feels like an instant later Adam is pressing down against his lower back, wordlessly beckoning him to spread his legs a little wider so he’s at less of an angle.

He does so, and the plug shifts inside him just enough to make him gasp.

“Easy, baby.”

_ Oh.  _ Adam’s already  _ that _ far gone.

Ronan doesn’t say anything, because he wasn’t prompted to, but he’s sure Adam can see the chills working their way up his spine. 

“I’m going to start pouring,” Adam tells him, thumb working circles methodically into his hip. “On three, okay?”

“Yeah,” Ronan answers, dropping his head.

“One.”

Ronan gives himself this singular second to tense up. The wax won’t hurt. He knows it won’t; Adam would never use a candle that was unsafe. But it’s always at least a little nerve-wracking, awaiting a sensation you aren’t controlling.

“Two.”

And then he exhales, because he knows that’s what Adam wants to see. Trust. Vulnerability. Submission.

“Three.”

This is, if Ronan is counting correctly, only the fourth time they’ve ever played with wax. 

It is also, instantly, the best time. 

Adam pours in a line straight from the base of his spine to the central point between his shoulder blades, never wavering, never hesitating. 

With everything in him, Ronan fights to keep still. 

He hopes Adam isn’t mistaking his visible shaking for pain, because no part of it is that.

It feels  _ incredible _ .

The house is well insulated enough, but it’s old, and, as is the way of most old things, it’s grown out of its prime. If it’s snowing outside, the bedroom, with its large and multiple windows, is bound to cater to a slight draft.

The wax is such a contrast that he can feel all the blood in his body fleeing in its wake, pooling elsewhere and leaving his vertebrae to their new heat source.

Again: impossibly harder.

Adam’s jacking himself off again with his free hand. Ronan can see him doing it out of the corner of his eye, if he looks back just far enough, but he can also hear it: the rhythmic, familiar cadence of skin on skin, and the ragged, rushed way Adam’s breathing.

Because he knows that Adam needs to be pulled back into the moment, he asks, “What does it look like?”

For a moment, there’s nothing. Then: “Red. I mean, not—the wax is white. But your skin’s turning red all around it. Is it—does it—”

“I could probably come without touching my dick, if you’re wondering whether I’m into it.”

“Really?” Adam asks, but it isn’t tentative or self conscious; rather the opposite—Ronan isn’t sure he’s ever heard him quite so lust-blown. 

“Really,” Ronan confirms, and then, because he already knows, “Is that what you want?”

Adam audibly swallows.

“Okay,” Ronan agrees, and that’s that. 

When Adam has enough wax built up to begin pouring again, it’s across Ronan’s shoulder blades this time, and he considers, absently, the religious symbolism of the newly created image. 

His cock is full and heavy and curving up toward his stomach despite his downward angle, and he’d really like to relieve the pressure just for a second, but his hands are bound and he also just agreed not to, so he doesn’t ask Adam to do it for him.

Adam’s hands are both still occupied, anyway.

The next line comes across the middle of his back, at his waistline, and the next at his hips, and then Adam is pouring it up the base of his neck and all of a sudden it’s so much that he rockets from not-too-close to barely audibly stuttering out, “Fuck, Parrish, hold on, that’s—I’m—”

Immediately, Adam backs off. “Too hot?” he asks, sounding, for the first time, unsure of himself. 

“No,” Ronan laughs breathily, taking a moment to steady himself before elaborating. “Just didn’t know if you wanted me to come yet.”

“ _ Jesus _ , Ronan. You almost— _ already _ ?”

“Another drop and I would’ve been done for,” Ronan admits. “I didn’t really have time to ask if it was okay, so I figured stopping you was my best bet.”

The sound Adam releases is somewhere between a sigh and a moan and then the candle is on the nightstand and he’s in front of Ronan, kissing him, hard and wet. “You’re so good,” he pants when he’s had his fill, leaning their foreheads together. “Whenever you need to come, you can come, okay? This is—this is advance permission. You don’t have to ask.”

Ronan smiles, softer than he ever does for anyone but Adam, and brushes a kiss across his cheek. “You got it, chief.”

Pointedly, Adam clears his throat.

Ronan feels himself blush. “Thank you,” he quickly adds.

Adam smiles back, all teeth, and picks the candle up again.

For the next indiscernible expanse of time, Ronan exists in feeling.

Adam uses his own hand to ensure that the wax doesn’t drip onto the comforter, pouring it with a measured grace over Ronan’s sides and his ass and the backs of his thighs (this is the only place where it almost hurts, but not in an unpleasant way in the slightest). 

Wax cascades over his biceps and forearms. His Achilles heels. The bends of his knees. 

It collects in a pool at the small of his back, and Adam coaxes it out with his fingertips, spreading it into what Ronan could swear feels like the shape of the intersecting ley lines.

It encompasses him like a blanket, and his entire body is alight and alive, thrumming with sensation.

He can feel his balls drawing up, which is annoying because he already almost just came (Or was that thirty minutes ago? Or an hour? Or yesterday?), but then there’s warm, satiny wax spilling over them and he knows it’s intentional and he knows he’s done for, so he doesn’t even try to stop it this time, just grits out, “You motherfucker,” before he’s shooting ropes of white onto the sheets beneath him, giving out and collapsing save for the minimal leverage awarded to his upper half by the restraints. 

He hisses quietly as Adam removes the plug, both because of the wax’s gentle tugging at the skin around it and because he’s post-orgasm tense, but Adam soothes the loss of sensation with his thumb until it’s almost enough to get Ronan’s dick interested again and then stops to undo the cuffs, kissing across Ronan’s wrists once they’re bare again.

Ronan doesn’t realize until he’s restored to full function that he isn’t the only one who got off; Adam’s thighs and stomach are sticky and glistening, which means Ronan either missed it during his own climax or Adam came silently—not unheard of when his attention is focused so heavily on Ronan.

They lie in silence for a moment because they’ve both had a lot taken out of them, Ronan’s head on Adam’s chest, Adam absently running his fingers over the rivulets of dried wax on Ronan’s back.

“Guess I need to get cleaned up,” Ronan says reluctantly, because he’d much rather just stay right here until the end of time. “Which means you’re gonna make my ass some bacon and eggs.”

Adam props himself up on his elbow, clearly amused. “Oh, does it?”

“Yeah,” Ronan counters. “I think I deserve it after that.”

Adam says nothing this time; simply raises one brow.

This is a Look, with a capital L. It’s designated for instances in which Ronan needs to be put in his place, or reminded of it, at the very least, and it’s never  _ not  _ worked. “Please?” he asks, because he knows it’s what Adam wants and he’s fully incapable or refusing to deliver. He does bat his eyelashes, though, because if nothing else he’s going to be annoying.

“Much better,” Adam praises with a smirk, sweeping a quick kiss over Ronan’s forehead. “Come downstairs when you’re done.” A brief pause, and then, “Oh, and Ronan?”

Ronan’s already halfway off the bed when he halts, turning back to meet Adam’s eyes. They’re a stormy grey this morning; a near perfect match to the winter sky. “Yeah?”

Adam’s smirk is still sitting firmly in place, but there’s something sharper in it now. Something sparkling and dark that makes Ronan question whether he should be afraid or excited.

“Don’t bother putting clothes on. You won’t need them.”

**Author's Note:**

> oh fuck i have literally NO time to write notes lmao okay uh look this is Not My Best Work and i have already titled a fic Common Tongue but this one is titled with lyrics from it anyway because i have no originality and am on a time constraint come for me if you want idc
> 
> i love you so so so much my darling Michelle i'm so sorry this is so late and i'm so sorry i didn't take nearly enough time to edit but i hope you like it anyway <3
> 
> THANK YOU TO EVERYONE FOR READING PLEASE NOBODY TALK TO ME ABOUT MY INABILITY TO KEEP ADAM FROM WANTING AT LEAST A SECOND ROUND I DON'T KNOW WHY I'M LIKE THIS


End file.
